I truly wish I led a more...well, I don't want to say interesting life. Generally, interesting lives involves a harrowing experience or two and I don't have the energy for something like that. I guess I just wish I did things worth noting. My idea of a day well spent involves remembering to eat, exercise, write, work and play with the kid. Playing with the hubby then is my reward. I work for eHarlequin.com, which is really the height of my "interest" factor. I read a lot of posts, I laugh a lot, and I try not to eat too much crap at one time. It's a good life, even if it doesn't make for the most thrilling of blogs.
As a writer of romance fiction, I've had to learn to be more circumspect about my lack of achievement. Kind of the way hamsters get to enjoy their little round running wheels that never take them anywhere. Hamsters eat and sleep all day. They are the only creatures on earth that stay fat little balls despite their unceasing and apparent joy in running. Sick little bastards. Seriously. But who am I to talk? I write. I submit. I run my nerves to little nubs until I get my rejection. Then after eating what I shouldn't for an unadvised amount of time, I do it again. And not only do I like it, I'm proud of myself for it.
Say it with me: Sick Little Bastard. Seriously.
As a curious little aside, I, too, remain a fat little ball. Think this is the universe trying to tell me something?
Which makes me think that publishing would be the equivalent of getting a hamster maze. I'll get to climb willingly into a hole which will lead on various paths that will be tight, impossible to see forward or backward, continually wondering if I should have jumped into that left turn instead of holding out for something that felt like it was heading me right. I'll climb up and slide down and have no idea which way leads home until I fall into a pile of wood chips that end up stuck to my butt and unable to take off without a serious ass-chewing.
And by God, I'll probably be pretty proud of myself when that's done too.
Worse, I'll go diving back into that tight little hole like it's lined with honey and do it all over again.
Go ahead. You can say it: Sick Little Bastard. Seriously.
But hey, it's fulfilling. Guess the hamsters think so too.